Jules's famished little heart drank in all this unusual kindness and
attention as greedily as the parched earth drinks in the rain. Still,
he would have passed many a long, restless hour, had it not been for
Joyce's visits.
She brought over a photograph of the house at home, with the family
seated in a group on the front porch. Jules held it close while she
introduced each one of them. By the time he had heard all about
Holland's getting lost the day the circus came to town, and Jack's
taking the prize in a skating contest, and Mary's setting her apron on
fire, and the baby's sweet little ways when he said his prayers, or
played peek-a-boo, he felt very well acquainted with the entire Ware
family. Afterward, when Joyce had gone, he felt his loneliness more than
ever. He lay there, trying to imagine how it must feel to have a mother
and sisters and brothers all as fond of each other as Joyce's were, and
to live in the midst of such good times as always went on in the little
brown house.
Monsieur Ciseaux, sitting by his fire with the door open between the two
rooms, listened to Joyce's merry chatter with almost as much interest as
Jules. He would have been ashamed to admit how eagerly he listened for
her step on the stairs every day, or what longings wakened in his
lonely old heart, when he sat by his loveless fireside after she had
gone home, and there was no more sound of children's voices in the
next room.
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